


Luck of the Irish?

by LivaWilborg



Series: How to be a Templar [1]
Category: Assassin's Creed, Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Assassin's Creed: Rogue, Assassins getting murdered, Gen, Haytham Being An Asshole, Maybe this shouldn't be G-rated, No Mention of Kitchen Appliances, Plot-Plumbing the Canon, Respectful Friendship, Sarcasm, bet, shouting, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-04
Updated: 2016-11-10
Packaged: 2018-06-06 08:24:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6746548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LivaWilborg/pseuds/LivaWilborg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How did Shay *actually* end up at the Finnegans' house?</p><p>When Monro plucks an ex-assassin known as Shay Cormac out of the cold waters, he sees it as an asset for the Order. When he explains this (and the fact that he wants to nurse him back to health) to Haytham Kenway, the Grand Master is… well, less than pleased, to say the least. </p><p>An addition to Canon, explaining how one overly cautious Templar was ever convinced to let a turncoat join his ranks. </p><p>Warning for shouting, swearing, name-calling, sarcasm, and a bet! And Haytham being rather cruel to Shay in a very polite fashion...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Luck of the Irish?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Taera](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taera/gifts), [enilosa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/enilosa/gifts), [Aniphine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aniphine/gifts).



“…But yes, it’s generating the expected profit. And the breweries and moneylenders’ books are well balanced in our favour. …Oh, by the way, I haven’t received a report from the _Herradine_ yet, not to mention the cargo, though I’m told she arrived in port yesterday.” George Monro frowned slightly, emptying his brandy-glass. “Also… Frankly I’m surprised you haven’t replaced her captain ages ago.”

“And why is that?” Haytham calmly folded up the maps and stacked the ledgers on the table between them before pouring them both a fresh drink.

“As far as I know, Captain Peters is a complete disgrace.”

“Yes… His personal antics are somewhat pervasive. But he’s a smuggler of absolutely no renown. Which speaks to his credit.” Haytham almost smiled, Monro noticed.

“Since the _Herradine_ has landed,” Haytham continued, “may I propose you treat yourself to a personal visit with Captain Disgrace? I’m certain it will be as memorable for you as it was for me.” he commented, rising to his feet, giving a questioning nod towards the fireplace. Monro rose as well, and they took a seat in the comfortable chairs by the fire, the official business of the Order concluded for the month.

Monro leaned back, stretching his feet towards the warmth. “What would I gain by this?” he asked, bemusement in his voice. It was a fairly rare occurrence seeing the Grand Master almost smile; a fact for which he felt sorry for the man. Their cooperation had lasted little over a year now, and Monro felt the younger man was carrying too many burdens too willingly. Not that he thought him incapable of doing so. And he had tremendous respect for his willingness to get his hands dirty and ability to plan, manage and execute policies. But it was obvious there was room for little else than strategy in his life.

“Well, when I met with Captain Peters he was wearing a hat.” Haytham said, offhandedly.

“A …hat?”

“Yes. As it turned out when he got up, he was not bare-chested, as I had assumed him, unforgivable in itself, but in fact wearing nothing _but_ his hat.” Haytham gave an actual laugh at the sight of the horrified disbelief in Monro’s face. “Yes, I did consider shooting him then and there, but he had just come through for the Order with a massive shipment of banned goods, so I decided to stay the execution.”

“Rather generous. I wouldn’t have thought you’d be the sort of man to appreciate such naturally occurring humour.”

“I make exceptions on occasion. His crew is remarkably disciplined, though, and seems to simply accept his odd behaviour. Also, honesty is very important to Captain Peters.” Haytham smiled. “He ordered his first mate to explain to me how honest smuggling works.”

Monro shook his head in disbelief. “Honest smuggling?”

“Yes. When they come to a harbour and need to declare their cargo, Peters has the whole crew come to the toll-booth hours before it opens and ceremoniously swear that everything they swear for the rest of the day will be a lie. The whole crew can then solemnly attest to whatever false cargo manifest Peters decides to tout.”

“I… believe perjury is rather illegal.” Monro laughed.

“But in this case, not quite dishonest. If nothing else, Peters is a study in interesting leadership.”

“ _Interesting_ doesn’t seem to cover it.” Monro ran his fingers through his short grey hair. He regarded Haytham for a while. “But since you make exceptions and stay executions on occasion…”

“Yes? With a preface like that, this should be good.”

Monro took a sip of his brandy. “I assume, of course, that you are familiar with the reports on the known assassins. Those we have identified.”

Haytham raised an eyebrow. “That goes without saying. Or so I thought. Where is this leading?”

“Shay Cormac.” Monro simply stated.

“Believed to have been, if not solely responsible, then part of the crew that murdered Washington, Smith and Wardrop for the artefacts they held and hasn’t been spotted since Wardrop’s demise. Of Irish descent, obviously. One of Davenport’s lapdogs. Sailor, from the reports we’ve received. Probably laying low somewhere and we’ll be lucky to get our hands on him until he resurfaces. What about him?” Haytham asked.

“I happen to know where he is.”

“Well, excellent… End him. One less problem in the world.”

“Not quite as easy as that.”

“What a surprise.” Haytham said dryly. “So?”

“The man apparently had a falling out with the assassins and is currently recovering from a bullet wound at some friends of mine. I believe he can become an asset of the Order.”

“Yes... George. …Have you lost your mind?” Haytham enquired, bluntly serious. “I’d offer to help search for it, but I wouldn’t have the faintest idea where to begin.”

“Very kind of you, Grand Master.” Monro said, studying the look of genuine mystification on Haytham’s face. “But I don’t believe so.”

“Then go there immediately and put an end to the man’s suffering.”

“No.” Monro simply stated and calmly reached for his tobacco pouch and began stuffing his pipe.

“No?”

Monro ignored the note of disbelief in the Grand Master’s voice. “As I said, I believe he can become an asset. And I’m not about to murder a bedridden man, assassin or otherwise.”

“Commendably noble! Then tell me where he is and I will do it for you. I can’t believe you have not taken proper action. He murdered three of our brothers!”

“And now he is perhaps ready for a change in perspective.” Monro stated matter-of-factly.

“I’d like to know whatever he knows, but there are other ways of extracting information than nursing the man back to health.”

“He was shot by his old allies. He is ready to share his knowledge of his own volition. And he can become valuable if-“

“ _Can_ and _if_ are poor substitutes for _will_.” Haytham’s voice rose in volume with this statement and the brandy glass he’d been holding was deposited on the side table with more force than was necessary. “We are not setting up a kennel for estranged assassins!”

“Hardly what I’m advocating.” Monro responded, annoyance making him frown. “But I’m frankly surprised you can’t see the wisdom in taking a chance with someone who won’t even be receiving anything from us, until he proves his worth. Have you grown a tad complacent, perhaps?”

“For not trusting an assassin? You must be joking! He is most likely a spy!”

“Planting a spy with a bullet seems a wee bit extreme, even for them.” Monro said severely, pointing his pipe sharply at the Grand Master.

“And still I wouldn’t put it past them!” Haytham snapped.

Annoyance blossoming slowly into frustrated anger, Monro felt his voice coloured by a touch of his Scottish accent, which only fuelled his frustration further. “The man isn’t lying about this. I know this with great certainty, and if you’d only hear me ou-“

“I’m really not going to discuss this anymo-“

“He believes himself responsible for the destruction of Lisbon and thousands of civilian casualties.” Monro interrupted heatedly. “If that’s not sufficient motivation to-“

“Oh… I see. Well, poor man, in that case. Let’s hold his hands and be friends.” Haytham said with searing sarcasm. “He is _lying_ and you’re senseless to believe otherwise.”

“He told me in a raging fever on the verge of death. Nobody lies in such a state!“ Monro almost shouted, and when he saw Haytham about to interrupt, he raised his voice: “No! He was not faking his fever! You might not credit my sanity at the moment, but at least acknowledge that I’ve seen more than my share of dying men, and this one was halfway to his grave!”

“So get the information from him and-“

“He blames the assassins and fears they’ll destroy the earth if left unchecked. Quite literally! And if you won’t accept an opportunity like this when it’s practically dancing hat-clad-naked in front of you then you’re the mad dog in this company!”

“You’re protecting an assassin, you insane son of a whore. Would you stop it this instant! What the Hell kind of madness is this!” Haytham shouted, incredulous.

Monro angrily threw his clay pipe in the fireplace. “No, I’m protecting a possible asset, and I’d think you of all people should be capable of appreciating that one might not end up on the same side of the fence, as one was born to.”

“ _I_ of all people? What exactly is that supposed to mean!”

“You know perfectly well what I mean, Grand Master _Kenway_.”

Haytham’s hands clenched, his earlier disbelief evidently evaporated by his anger. “So that’s what it boils down to, is it! The trump card that’s supposed to sell me this gangly, lackwit scheme of yours.”

“I wasn’t born in the bloody colonies; I know exactly what kind history you carry with you. And in light of that, you should be able to appreciate that loyalty is bred by the circumstances you find yourself in, not by blood or past. And-“

“No. No more.” Haytham angrily stabbed a finger at the colonel: “You do as I bloody well tell you, haggis-mongering madman! I can’t believe you’re even conside-”

Monro slapped the Grand Master’s hand out of the way. “I’m not dancing to your tune if I believe your judgement is compromised by blind, idiotic prejudice. If I let you have your way, the Order will lose a chance for information that-“

“You command soldiers.” Haytham yelled, exasperated. “What do you usually do with gross insubordination?”

“I evaluate on a case by case basis and take action accordingly. Might I suggest you do that before I have to accuse you of being a complete sapscull with no vision!”

“Unbelievable!” Haytham stated, some of the anger receding. “I’m not going to use the Order’s resources on playing nursemaid to some greasy Irish mongrel!”

“I’m not asking you to!” Monro looked at the pipe, blackened by the fire, and gave an annoyed sigh. “ _I_ will initiate the contact. I only informed you as a courtesy. Not for permission. Because, as we both know, you have to rely on trusted people’s sound initiative, or you’d be a one-man-rite.”

Haytham gave an involuntary laugh and shook his head. “Sound initiative…” he commented, suddenly calm. “Are you threatening your resignation, George?”

“Certainly not. Don’t be absurd!” he stated categorically. He gestured vaguely at the broken pipe in the fireplace. “…I’m only threatening your patience, it seems.”

They sat in silence for a while, both staring frowningly into the fire as the anger between them began to dissipate.

“…How did you find this trustworthy marvel of ex-assassindom, then?” the Grand Master finally sighed.

 “A fairly long series of random coincidences.”

“Do regale me.”

“He was found on the shores of Whale Cove, north of Boston, by a couple of fishermen. They believed he was dead, but fortunately they were good Christians and had him carted off to have a decent burial. Much to their horror, he started spitting blood on the way to town. The townsfolk were afraid of him, but at some point he ended up in the care of a woman who happened to be the widowed sister-in-law of a trusted informer of mine. This fellow chanced to be visiting and overhear some of the things Cormac shouted in his fever and reported to me immediately. _Cocksucking precursor shite_ and _Go to Hell, Achilles_ were two of the main themes, apparently. I had him transported to safety as soon as he could be moved.”

“…Providential, I’m sure.” Haytham noted, then paused. “…George.” he finally said.

“…Haytham?”

“When this is over, you’ll give me a full apology and be uniquely responsible for mopping this mess up. And do the paperwork of the Order for six months, no matter where your military duties might take you.” The hint of a smirk was lurking at the corner of the Grand Master’s mouth.

Monro laughed. “Actually… When this is over, you’ll be thanking me for my sound judgement and making a full apology in genuine Scottish whisky; none of this fashionably sub-par brandy-hogwash.” Monro nodded at his glass on the side table. “And you’ll be taking Cormac under your, indisputably capable, wing.”

“Deal!”

They shook hands on it.

Haytham got up and regarded Monro. “Well, that was stimulating. But I should probably be heading home before you have a change of heart and poison the next drink.”

“That’s probably for the best, Grand Master. I doubt if anyone is ready to take over your duties.” Monro got to his feet and followed Haytham out in the hall. The servants had long since gone to bed, so he handed Haytham his coat and hat.

The Grand Master hesitated at the door. “Take over my duties…” he mused. “I should probably choose a successor. Soon. You never know.”

“You should. Lee, in my opinion.” Monro said seriously.

“Not you?”

“No.”

“No?” Haytham gave a short laugh. “That seems to be tonight’s theme.”

“I’m too old.” Monro smiled and held Haytham’s gaze calmly. “And truth be told, I’d make changes to the direction the Order is going. Small ones, granted. But still changes. Lee would be absurdly loyal to your memory. He’s a better choice.”

Haytham frowned, frozen in place for a moment, his hand on the door handle. “Am I really that far from your vision of what the Order should be?” he finally asked.

“Do you have any doubt that I would let you know if you were?” Monro responded.

A tiny smile tugged at the corner of Haytham’s mouth: “Good night, Master Monro. I’ll reserve the right to keep an eye on your dealings with this Cormac character.”

“Good night, Grand Master. I expect nothing less.”

Monro smiled to himself as he closed the door.

 

 


	2. Whisky!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Following the bet with Monro, Haytham decides to put Cormac, the traitor, to the test.  
> This leads to a fun night out (I guess you could say... If your idea of a fun night is a death toll of probably around 20).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A HUGE thanks to Enilosa for the amazingly precise, thorough, funny and encouraging beta-read. You are totally amazing!! Thank you!!

“Punctuality! Moderately excellent, Mister Cormac.” Haytham looked the former Assassin over. _At least he’s on time and can follow instructions… I suppose that’s a point to his credit._ he thought, looking the man over.

Like Haytham, Cormac was dressed as a sailor, as he’d been told; a shabby, wide brimmed hat drawn down over his face completing the scruffy look. In this attire, they wouldn’t attract any attention at the docks.

“Sir?” Cormac stopped, regarding Haytham intensely for a moment as though evaluating whether this was a bad omen. …A realistic possibility in his situation.

Haytham just raised an eyebrow.  “If I wanted you dead…” he simply commented.

The former Assassin just gave a strange nodding shrug.

“Yes, Mister Cormac?”

“You’re the Grand Master. And… well, here.”

“Yes. Shall we?” Haytham gestured down the dark street towards the end of the docks. “The rest of the party should be slowly gathering; I’m sure it’ll be interesting. The goods were delivered a few hours ago, but we’ll probably have company soon, if not already, so stay sharp.”

They started walking, a warehouse at the far edge of the mostly deserted docks taking shape out of the darkness.

“You are going to actually… be here? Help in doing something useful?” Cormac asked, mystified. “But I was told there was likely to be fighting.”

“I’m hoping they’ll surrender, obviously...” Haytham commented dryly and gave a little sigh of annoyance. “Of course I’ll fight. What sort of leadership are you used to?”

The former Assassin opened his mouth to reply but Haytham quickly cut him off: “Don’t answer that, please. I’m certain I can guess.”

They walked on a while in silence, but before reaching the warehouse Haytham gestured for them to stop. He glanced around. The docks were never quite deserted. But although ships were being loaded and unloaded at all hours, this end of the docks were quiet, the warehouses much farther between and the few rooftops were empty.

Haytham sat down on a stack of crates, leaning back comfortably. When Cormac hesitated, Haytham just nodded at a crate next to him. Cormac took a seat, obviously trying to hide the questions boiling under the surface, though a small frown of uncertainty betrayed him.

_He’s wondering what he’s doing here, of course. Well, let’s see if he’s brave or stupid enough to demand information._

“Sir, I’ll assume this has to do with the Assassins?” he finally asked.

“Quite. And what would be your thoughts on that matter?” _So… brave or stupid enough!_

“Every one of them will recognise me.”

“Potentially me, too. That’s why we stay clear for the first chapter of the action.”

“What happens in chapter two, Sir?”

“Let’s focus on the prologue, for a spell.” Haytham corrected. “Perhaps you can tell me. The Assassins have ordered a large shipment of weapons, the quality kind from England. We planted the opportunity and they took the bait. Now they are going to pick up and pay for their wares, cleverly smuggled onto these fair Colonial shores to avoid the toll authorities. How will they proceed?”

“Depends.” Cormac said, his eyes scanning the rooftops and access points. “How many crates are we talking about?”

“Thirty-five. A fairly hefty haul.”

“They’ll need transportation, then. The goods must be for use in the city or they’d have the mooncusser anchor up elsewhere. So they’ll need several carts for transport, maybe three, if not more. Most likely they’ll hire civilians and pay for their silence, but keep them out of sight until they know if the deal curdles. They’ll send a few people in to do the trading, and have some lurking on the nearby roofs.” He nodded at the nearest warehouse, a good deal out of gunshot range. “For monitoring, warning of hostile movements, and picking off stragglers. Maybe some on foot there and there.” He nodded down the dirty, unpaved streets leading down the harbour and into the outskirts of the city.

“Very well, so how would you proceed from here?” Haytham asked, quietly crossing ‘ _Not a complete lackwit_ ’ and ‘ _Capable of basic situation analysis_ ’ off his mental checklist.

“Depends again, Sir.” Cormac stared frowningly at the warehouse at the end of the docks as though he could see through the walls if he concentrated hard enough. “Which assets are available? You mentioned a party earlier. That’s more than two people, traditionally.”

“Six men in that warehouse.” Haytham nodded at the lonely structure down the docks, “Us here. Five standing by at the first crossing of the north road into the city. They’ll react at the first sound of trouble.”

“Seems a fair setup. The towners can intercept those coming from the harbour-side. If they recognise them…”

“Recognise them? I thought that was what the hoods were for.” Haytham noted sarcastically.

Something that would perhaps have been a sharp reply seemed just about to leave the former Assassin’s lips, but then he just shook his head and lowered his gaze. “Perhaps you’re right, Sir.”

“Yes.” Haytham shot him a sharp look. “But back to the main issue; how would you proceed? Do we leave everyone where they are or would you have thoughts on optimising the setup?”

“They’ll expect a handful of crewmembers to be present, so the warehouse is fine. I suppose the towners could stay as they are.” he commented evenly.

“ _Could_ stay?”

“…I think I’d take one from of the towners and one from the warehouse and place them where we are now, so there’s a lookout on the ground. And-“ he shrugged, though a look of something that might be frustration or annoyance crossed his features. He sighed. “The rest of the plan wouldn’t be to your liking, Sir. Besides, I don’t know what you’re capable of, so you’d be difficult to place.”

Haytham carefully kept a smile from his face. “In an ideal world, where you assumed I was as capable as I needed to be, what would be the plan?”

“I’d be on that roof and take care of their lookout.” He nodded to a warehouse at the dock’s edge. “You’d be on that one,” he indicated another good position on a rooftop further down, “doing the same.”

 _Am I testing you or is it the other way around…_ Haytham thought, privately amused.

When their eyes met in the gloom, it almost seemed like Cormac was holding back a smile. “…Told you, you wouldn’t like it, Sir.” he commented.

“The way I see it,” Haytham began “you are a traitor.”

Cormac didn’t look away. “I know. And I am.” he simply confirmed tonelessly.

“But you’re not a stupid traitor, so I’ll assume you know that you’ll be shot like a lame horse the second I believe you false.”

The former Assassin looked at him for a while. “So… You’re agreeing? To the setup?” He asked with a puzzled frown. “You’ll let me out of your sight?”

“Yes. You’ve been largely out of my sight for 31 years; a few more minutes will not make a difference, Mister Cormac.” He got to his feet, gesturing towards the city. “I’ll let the ‘towners’, as you termed them, know to move a lookout to the harbour and take one of the men from the warehouse with him.”

They began walking back the way they came.

Cormac stayed quiet.

“So, tell me. What’s it like under the hood? I’ve always wondered.” Haytham asked conversationally as they walked.

“What’s it like…” Cormac said. He shook his head glumly, put his hands in his coat-pockets and drew his shoulders up. “Like a nice shield of purpose you don’t question.” he finally said, quietly, almost as though speaking to himself.

“Mhh. …Seems genuine.” Haytham commented, keeping his voice neutral. “But I’d play my cards in exactly the same way if I were in your…” he looked down, “…remarkably grubby and ill-fitting shoes.”

The former Assassin gave him a weary look and nodded. “I’ve no doubt, Sir.” He stopped at the corner where the docks met the north road into the city and stared at his shoes for a moment. “Don’t think I’m not surprised at even being here. With you, of all people. A few months ago, this would be a dream of righteous violence come true.”

“But now?”

“I’m not sure how to make sense of things anymore. But I’ll take any guidance I can get.”

“Commendable, Mister Cormac.” Haytham said. “I’m sure it will be interesting to see how you react to the guidance I can offer.”

 

o-0-o

 

It was truly impressive how fast otherwise well-planned manoeuvres turned to shit. Haytham ducked, feeling the warmth of the dead body on the rooftop next to him as a shot whistled past, knocking his hat askew. He quietly corrected it and, staying low, flipped the dead man over to reach the pistol strapped to the corpse’s lower back. He looked to the other roof carefully, but it was obvious the attacker had lost interest in him.

Cormac was there.

From across the street the details were blurry in the dark, but the movement was furious enough to be visible. Haytham weighed the gun in his hand as he looked at the fight. He’d risk hitting Cormac. His fingers quietly itched to take the shot anyway. He wondered if that was because of the bet with Monro. _Unfortunately, Mister Cormac was killed during a minor operation. What a shame._ No, it wouldn’t do. Haytham trusted that no matter how carefully he kept his expression blank, Monro would instantly see through it.

He heard the sounds of fighting from the street and shots fired from the docks and wondered vaguely where the Hell everything had gone wrong, but that was a problem he’d have to investigate later. If Cormac was to blame for the operation souring, he was a bigger nitwit than he seemed to be. It would be a very small-scale exchange to endanger his carefully tailored cover for.

On the opposite roof, the hooded man went down, and the knife in Cormac’s hand acquainted itself with the fallen Assassin’s chest in such a show of determined violence that Haytham couldn’t for the life of him imagine it was staged. If it was, they should be performing at the Theatre Royal, not on shabby Colonial rooftops in the dark.

The dead Assassin slid off the roof and landed in a bone-crushing pile in the street. Unsurprisingly, he stayed still.

_Not a show, then. I suppose this gives him points for sincerity. Or perseverance. He might be making this sacrifice to gain access to more important information._

“Monro might still be stuck with the paperwork…” he commented under his breath, wishing he still believed it, and watched as Cormac nimbly made his way down from the roof, just a shadow in the dark.

With a frown on his face, Haytham followed.

‘ _Might’_ was really the operative term. Staying in the shadows, he saw Cormac sprint towards the fight in the streets that was now spilling out into the docks. Absurdly, Haytham noticed, it seemed a group of drunk sailors that had absolutely nothing to do with either party, had joined the fight. He rolled his eyes as he approached, and saw a hooded figure fall to Mister Cormac’s blade, caught in the back with neither honour nor mercy.

Haytham couldn’t keep a smile from his lips. There was potential here, he admitted reluctantly to himself before joining the fray.

 

o-0-o

 

Cormac was a fast sprinter. It was to be expected, of course, he’d been hunted by the Temple on more than one occasion. Now he was hunting an Assassin. Haytham pushed himself to speed up, quickly going over the layout of this part of the city in his mind to figure out if there’d be some way to take a shortcut and get ahead of them. He’d risk going in another direction than the last surviving Assassin from the fight chose, however. So, he followed. Four streets and a thoroughfare later, the Assassin finally veered off course, turning down a narrow alley, probably to find purchase to get to higher ground.

Haytham grinned to himself while he ran. Finally.

As he followed on the rooftops, with no bothersome walls in the way, it was easier to get ahead. He wasn’t unseen. The fleeing Assassin even sent a bullet in his direction, but as Cormac closed in, the Assassin was obviously not concentrating on his aim.

Haytham concentrated, however. He was long since out of bullets, but the throwing-knife found its mark in the fleeing man’s lower leg, hurling him cursing to the rooftop. Cormac overtook him in moments and Haytham watched, rather impressed, as the hunted Assassin pulled the knife from his calf and defended himself with it with more vigour than he had any right to possess at this point.

 _I should have brought a flask of brandy for this…_ Haytham leaned comfortably against a tall chimney, rather enjoying watching the moonlit show on the rooftop opposite.

The Assassin was bleeding from the knife wound enough that his pants glued to his leg, but he was obviously a skilled combatant. Probably trained in classical fencing, Haytham guessed, with a decent amount of dirty tricks thrown into the honourable mix. Lots of feinting; fine legwork, in spite of the fresh wound.

Cormac was obviously of the barroom brawl school of thought. His moves were never elegant or flashy, had no real subterfuge. But he was fast and precise in his strikes and clearly learned his opponent’s tactics quickly enough to avoid the killing blows, although he still took more than one slash from the knife.

As Haytham watched, he realised he’d perhaps been wrong. Cormac wasn’t just a brute in his approach – he could dodge, he had time, opportunity, and celerity enough. But he _didn’t_ dodge. The slashes he received from Haytham’s knife in the Assassin’s hand could almost all have been avoided.

 _He’s reluctant to make the kill. They know each other? Probably. No, damn it! The idiot’s ignoring every opening. …This is ridiculous!_ Haytham felt his enjoyment of the show sour with annoyance. The Assassin, slowly weakening, bared his side a few seconds too long, which should have been his end, but still the fight continued. Haytham rolled his eyes.   _Just get it over with, damn it! It looks like you’re sparring for the fun of it!_

Finally, _finally_ , Cormac moved in and ended it. His blade slid up under the Assassin’s ribs and stayed there as he gently eased the dying man to the flat rooftop. Cormac had his back turned, robbing the Grand Master of his view, and he was unsure what he was seeing when the former Assassin lifted his hand to wipe his cheek.

_I swear, if the Irish moggie is shedding tears over a dead Assassin, Monro can take his dingboy of a plan and shove it!_

Cormac stood up slowly and turned around. A few jumps and shimmies brought Haytham to the side of the dead man.

He stared sharply at Cormac through narrowed eyes. There was blood on his face, he saw. A smear of it, but no cut to explain it. He looked down. A corresponding smear was there at the back of Cormac’s hand.

…So it was the dying man’s bloody spit he’d wiped off his face, not tears. The sudden gratitude that felt like a warmth in Haytham’s mind was deeply surprising to him and quickly smothered in its infancy.

“What was _that_!” Haytham demanded coldly.

“What, Sir?”

“The performance I just witnessed!”

Cormac shrugged, hiding a grimace of pain from a wound making the shabby clothes stick to his shoulder. “Got the job done, Sir?”

“You haven't got a stealthy bone in your body, do you? I thought that was what being in the hood-brigade was all about. Or is it simply your shoes, mismatched, noticeably, that are drawing your attention away from any kind of footwork?”

“I've barely been on my feet for a fortnight, respectfully, Sir, and footwear’s not been a priori-“

“- and tie your damned hair back, it kept getting in your eyes when you fought, it's like watching a murderous  twelve year old girl.” Haytham barked angrily.

“I...”

“And who taught you to parry with your face! You fight as though you have a bloody death wish.”

Cormac opened his mouth to answer, but no sound came out. He closed it again with a thunderstruck expression.

“If you wish to leave this world, I'd be more than happy to assist you, but if you are going to be any kind of use to the Order, I need you capable of planning farther than your next chance for a slit throat! And back at the fight in the street, before this bastard,” Haytham kicked the corpse at his feet, “ran off; you froze! I had to use my last bullet on some damned white-clad fool about to stab you silly.” he snapped viciously.

Cormac just stared at him, the stunned expression firmly in place, eyes oddly unseeing, as though he was recounting the events in his mind.

“Well?” Haytham demanded. “Has all reason escaped you? Answer me!”

Cormac finally appeared to see him; he blinked, confused, shook his head. “When that scaffolding around the townhouse tumbled down,” he said, voice slow, “it threw me back to Lisbon, Sir. With all the screaming people I murdered.”

 _Fine, I accept the damned Lisbon-hogwash! But if all I have to do to distract him is make a few wooden boards fall to the ground, he’ll be about as useful as a pair of tits on a fish!_ Haytham thought bitterly as he searched Cormac’s features for some sort of sign of how damaged he was.

Cormac finally focused on Haytham. “I won’t freeze up again, Sir, you have my word. I can’t stop the Assassins alone and if you decide to put me out of my misery, or the Templars won’t take this seriously, thousands and thousands more will die. I can’t allow that, I’m hoping you can’t either. …But you– Did you shoot…” he mused as an afterthought.

“I did save your life, yes, and please trust me on this: I question my decision!”

Cormac bent down and ignoring his own weapon, he wrested the throwing knife from the dead Assassin’s hand. He wiped it on his sleeve and gave it handle first to Haytham:  “Point taken, Sir.” He gave a small nod when Haytham took the knife.

“I certainly hope so. If I see you fall victim to the Lisbon-malady again, I will be aiming at you, not your attacker.”

Cormac drew a deep breath. “That’s fair warning. But…”

“Yes, Mister Cormac?”

“…You forgot to tell me not to slouch and to close my mouth when I chew, Sir.” he added softly, voice and features unreadable, his gaze on Haytham alert.

 _Unbelievably stabbable fellow!_ Haytham thought, and a sudden, reluctant smile nudging at his lips was forcefully suppressed. “I haven't seen you eat yet.” he commented calmly, “…But do stand up straight.”

“I’ll endeavour to do that, Sir.” Cormac said, the ghost of a carefully controlled grin hiding in the corner of his mouth.

 

o-0-o

 

The warehouse at the end of the docks seemed like just another place where cargo was in the process of being prepared. Haytham noticed how Cormac’s eyes swept the rooftop and dark surroundings, just as his own had. They approached quietly in the dark but Haytham’s hand on the hilt of his sword relaxed when he recognised the guard by the door. He was quietly gratified when the man gave Cormac a sharp, suspicious look before letting them in with a nod in the Grand Master’s direction.

Finally, this ridiculously bungled mission seemed to have found its right footing. The cargo was safe and several people were breaking crates open and checking inventory lists at one end of the warehouse. At the other… Haytham almost gave a laugh at his sudden fortune.

Two prisoners were sitting on the floor by the far wall, bound, gagged and closely guarded. Four dead men lay in a pile on the floor close by, in various stages of disrepair.

The man that had been in charge of the warehouse-group approached, giving a respectful nod. “The money for the cargo was delivered. These two survived, Sir. You want me to shoot them?” he nodded at the prisoners.

“Good God, man; not at all.” Haytham smiled. “Fine work, but we have reinforcements tonight.” He turned to look at Cormac standing behind him. The former assassin was a bit paler than he had seemed earlier, but it might just be the wounds bothering him, Haytham mused. Their eyes met, and there was an empty lack of surprise in Cormac’s gaze.

“Come. Greet the guests. I suppose you must have questions about the effect your departure had. Perhaps they’ll give you news about old friends?” Haytham gestured for Cormac to take the lead.

They walked to stand in front of the two men – or rather, a man and a young novice. Probably a fledgling on his first mission. When the two saw Cormac they evidently recognised him, staring at him in confused horror. The older Assassin was the first to gather his wits. He strained furiously against the ropes binding him and struggled to let an angry string of obvious profanities escape in spite of the gag.

“You know them, I take it.” Haytham stated.

Cormac turned, eyes downcast. “I know them.” he said calmly.

“Can they tell me something you cannot?”

“If you want a lecture on the ills of kings, Eamon here is your man.” Cormac gestured wearily at the assassin who was still struggling and spewing curses behind the gag. “Other than that, I don’t think so. Maybe Davenport’s put more trust in him after my departure.”

“And the boy?”

“…William, I think. Not sure, Sir, I didn’t train him. He’s a novice. He knows nothing.”

“Well, if Davenport did gather his wits …I use that term loosely in this case… and committed himself to a new course of action after your departure, I suppose we would both benefit from that knowledge. Perhaps you could ask them politely? You’d likely have more luck than I would.”

“Sir, may I have a word with you?” Cormac asked calmly, as though he’d been waiting for an opening.

“Naturally.” Haytham nodded and led them away out of earshot, probably as aware of the curious stares of the workers as Cormac was. _If you can’t handle this, I really will slit your throat – Monro and the bet be damned._ “So, let’s hear it. Is there a problem?”

“I’m a murderer. I’m not a torturer.” the former assassin stated evenly. “If that’s the price, I won’t pay it. I can shoot a bullet in a helpless man if needs be, but nothing further than that.”

 _Insubordination_ already _? No wonder Monro champions him on instinct; they’re practically made for each other like Aristophanes’ twins! …Or is it simply a sense of honour? I never knew these types had any._ Haytham frowned. “Interesting show of principle, Mister Cormac. But I don’t believe I asked you to torture anyone? You’re also hardly mine to command yet, are you.”

Cormac looked over his shoulder at the prisoners before turning to give Haytham an uncertain stare for a while. “Sir?”

“We both know they aren’t important if Davenport threw them at a ‘go fetch’-mission. I recommended that you ask politely. If polite to an Assassin– pardon me; _former_ Assassin, suggests torture, no wonder we aren’t communicating well.” Haytham said, and was treated to a long, evaluating stare. “Naturally, I expect you to end them. Unless of course you want Davenport to know you’re alive?” he added conversationally. “I suppose you could let them run if you chose to. I’ll make no complains.”

“Yes, Sir. …As you say.” Cormac stated hesitantly.

“Excellent. Glad we got that settled. I’m certain you can borrow a pistol or two from Nathaniel over there.” He indicated the man who’d led the warehouse-group who was keeping an eye on their interaction. Cormac simply gave a weary nod and set off in Nathaniel’s direction.

Haytham took a seat on a crate near the two prisoners, watching the spectacle serenely.

Cormac stood before them, unmoving, with a borrowed gun in his hand. Both prisoners were obviously trying to comment rudely on the situation from behind the gags. The full-fledged Assassin was furious. The novice was hiding his terror of the inevitable under his disgust.

_If he chooses petty compassion over long-term strategy, I’ll personally murder all three of them!_

The pistol was raised quickly, trigger pulled, the young man slumped to the side, extinguished.

_Ah, all two of them, then…_

Blood pumped in sticky gushes from the hole in the young man’s forehead for a few moments; then it slowed to an oozing trickle that reached Cormac’s shoes. He didn’t move in the stunned silence.

The Assassin still living seemed to fight to get a grip on himself and wresting his shocked gaze away from the corpse next to him turned a narrow-eyed, hateful stare on his former brother.

Cormac turned where he stood, handed the spent weapon to Nathaniel and took the fresh pistol he was offered. He put the weapon in his belt and took a few steps closer to remove the gag from the bound man.

“I’ll let you hiss your curses, Eamon. That seems to be required.” he said softly.

The man just stared at him. He knew he was doomed, but any fear was smothered by anger and hatred.

“He was just a novice. You knew he was no threat. He knew nothing!” he finally said, voice taut.

“He knew I survived.” Cormac said.

“I didn’t think you could be a bigger traitor, you thieving, backstabbing little turd. How long have you been a Templar? A Templar!” he spat. “Treacherous damned paddy-whack! After everything Achilles did for you!”

“What did he do for me?” Cormac asked tonelessly.

“You can’t even show gratitude for what the Order provided? You are a sick dog, Shay! You should be put down! I hope to God–”

“You don’t even believe in God.“

“Fuck you, traitor! I _hope_ to God, so he can boot you to the lowest Hell for all eternity.”

Cormac was quiet for a while and Haytham could only guess at his expression. Then he shrugged. “I’m here because I know that’s where I’m headed. I murdered thousands, Eamon. Thousands.” he said, voice empty of expression. “Innocents all. And Achilles was behind it. I have to prevent it from happening again. I tried to make him understand. He wouldn’t even hear me.”

“You’re insane. If you want to prevent innocents dying, use that bullet on him.” Eamon nodded in Haytham’s direction. “He’s the murderer! Without him, the Templars are headless.”

Haytham nodded politely at the prisoner: “Kind of you to say.”

Cormac looked over his shoulder and their eyes met. Haytham shrugged slightly. “I don’t think there’s much to be learned either. At your leisure.” He gestured vaguely at the bound man and got to his feet, purposefully turning his back and walking off. He caught Nathaniel’s gaze briefly and the man nodded almost imperceptibly and angled his stance quietly so Haytham could see the weapon in his hand. Should Cormac decide to follow the Assassin’s advice, he’d be shot on the spot.

“I’m sorry, Eamon. But I don’t have a choice.” Cormac's voice sounded tired, frustrated.

“You’re Kenway’s dog! Just another Templar piece of shit!”

“No. But I hope to be. I don’t know how else to prevent further destruction.”

“Go to Hell, Templar!” was the sneered reply.

The shot rang out.

_So, not squeamish. Has a fair understanding of strategy. Actually believes he’s responsible for innocent lives being ended in droves. Willing to kill to prove his point. I can turn my back to him without fear. …Damn you, Monro._

Haytham quietly walked to the crates being opened to look at the wares the Assassins had paid for under false pretences. He allowed himself a small, satisfied smile and picked a bottle from a crate. The printed label on the bottle said ‘Battlehill Whisky Distillery’.

 _Probably because keeping it down is an uphill battle. …At least they’re honest,_ he mused to himself and eased the wax seal loose with a knife to pull the stopper and sniff the liquor. It nearly brought tears to his eyes with the strength of the fumes. He firmly put the stopper back. _You’d better be satisfied with this, you bloody Highland barbarian…_ he thought to himself, keeping a laugh from surfacing.

“Sir, what else do you require of me?”

Haytham turned. Cormac was there, under Nathaniel’s watchful gaze. Haytham held out the whisky bottle for Cormac to take. It was a heartbeat before he reacted. Then he tentatively reached for it and looked at the opened crates, all sporting carefully packed bottles.

Cormac’s brow furrowed. “I thought you said the Assassins had ordered weapons, Sir?”

Haytham gave it a thought. “I believe I said we planted the opportunity and they took the bait…”

“So, there weren’t any weapons? But this…” he held out the bottle. “It’s banned goods to the Crown. Worth a small fortune here.”

“Drink it with reverence, in that case. I happen to owe Colonel Monro a small debt, and this will do. …I’m hoping the Governor will feel the same when I meet with him tomorrow.” Haytham added as an afterthought. “They were clearly surprised to see you among the living.” he said, turning his attention on the former Assassin.

“Yes, Sir.” Cormac agreed softly; a wealth of conflicting emotions hiding under the surface.

“So since somehow your immortality has escaped them, they likely haven’t taken measures against that possibility. And after your work tonight, your secret is safe.”

“Seems so.”

Their eyes met for a moment before the hand not holding a whisky bottle went to pull a hood that wasn’t there, up. Cormac stopped the motion halfway and his hand fell to his side. “Sorry, Sir.” he just mumbled and looked away, shaking his head. Mostly at himself, it seemed.

“…Old habits. But the sooner you stop thinking like a common murderer, the better.”

“As you say, Sir.” Cormac looked up, exhaustion and a hint of self-loathing apparent in his eyes.

“Excellent. Just one more question before you go.”

Cormac nodded. “What do you need?”

“The corpses. What do we do with them?” Haytham gestured at the dead prisoners and the pile of dead Assassins beside them.

Cormac put the whisky bottle in the pocket of his shabby coat and slowly turned to stare at the dead men for a while. Just when Haytham was sure there’d be no reply, he turned back: “Do you want to know so you can give them a proper funeral, or do you want me to say what I think you want to hear, Sir?” he asked, neutral voice betrayed by the lost look in his eyes.

“I could always send them rotting on a cart back to Davenport. But do tell me what I want to hear.” Haytham said, inwardly laughing.

Cormac looked at the floor for a moment. “You have the Governor’s ear?”

“DeLancey and Pownall both.”

“Then you’d want to hear me say to leave them in the market place, posed as though they were fighting your people. Put a faked letter incriminating both Davenport and whoever the governor wants removed, in a pocket. Have your people report to have ‘happened upon them’ in the midst of a crime in the early hours. Then the governor can sweeten his own tea at your graceful intervention and be motivated to curb Davenport’s activities in one.”

Haytham couldn’t keep a short laugh back. He reached for another bottle of whisky and handed it to the former Assassin. “Decently inventive, Mister Cormac!” he stated. “With a few minor changes, it’ll be Gospel truth come dawn.”

Cormac nodded and pocketed the extra bottle. “Yes, Sir.” he said, the lost expression still haunting his features.

“Meet me tomorrow at noon at the Green Dragon Tavern. Since the Assassins don’t know you still live, they’ve not taken measures to protect their hideouts and contacts here and in Boston. You’ll give me every detail as you know them and help plan the best assault on their network.”

Cormac just nodded in agreement. ”I will.” He turned and strode away, head bent.

“Mister Cormac.” Haytham called.

He stopped in his tracks, looking over his shoulder.

“It will get easier from here.” Haytham said. “I’m not in favour of Assassins murdering civilians either.”

Cormac looked down for a while. Then he just nodded. “Good night, Sir. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Haytham watched him leave. Then he looked at the corpses at the end of the warehouse and couldn’t help but smile.

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thanks to Taera, who gave me the idea for this fic!  
> =D  
> And also a huge thanks to Aniphine for the beta-read on chapter one and to Enilosa for the beta-read on chapter two!  
> =D  
> Crazy kudos to all of you! Thank you so much for your help! ^^


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